


Homeward Bound

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dreamtale (Undertale), Angst, Dreamtale Sans (Undertale), Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Multiverse, Sibling Incest, Underverse, X-tale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: A story can't move forward without all its characters present. Cross never intended to return to X-Tale, but his body is breaking down, his health and soul deteriorating the longer he's away from home. Against his every wish, he's forced to go back and face the mess he left behind, all the people he hurt, and the brother he killed.
Relationships: Cross/Papyrus (X-tale), Fontcest - Relationship, Papyrus/Sans (Undertale), X-talecest
Comments: 12
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I...can't even really explain how this happened, except 0neType started talking about X-talecest on twitter and how it doesn't exist in the fandom and that is clearly a TERRIBLE INJUSTICE that needs to be corrected.
> 
> This fic centers around the story of X-Tale/Underverse by Jakei, and won't make a lot of sense if you haven't watched the amazing animated series on YouTube (which if you haven't see, you definitely should). Technically, this is set nebulously 'after the X-event is finished' with a lot of hand-wavy assumptions about how things will turn out. The second season of Underverse will probably make this all non-canon-compliant in short order, but until then I am going to have some fun writing messed up angsty brothers frustratedly fucking up (and fucking into) their relationship.
> 
> Cross and the X-Tale cast belong to [Jakei](https://xtaleunderverse.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Dream and Nightmare by [jokublog](https://jokublog.tumblr.com/).

The first sign of anything amiss starts with a string of bruises around Cross’s wrist.

He doesn’t think anything of them at first. They’re a parting gift from Killer after a scuffle on a far-flung version of Underswap in a near-genocidal timeline. He and Dream had chased the leering skeleton out, preventing Nightmare from being able to prey on the few last, mourning inhabitants of the dying underground. They stayed a few days, Dream doing his best to leave behind an imprint of hope and optimism before they continued their sporadic journey to the next world in need of assistance.

But the bruises don’t heal.

They’ve passed through three new universes before Cross even notices. It’s hard to keep track of time when you’re moving both sideways and forwards through the timelines, but he knows it’s been longer than a week...more than enough time for the trivial injury to have faded. He scrubs at it over a sink, wondering if it’s some kind of stain left by Killer’s oozing sockets, but when he carefully runs his fingers over the marks they feel hot and tender as if they were made moments ago instead of days. 

He tries to put it out of his mind, but the next time he goes up against Horror’s knife and dodges just a fraction of a second too slow he’s left with a shallow cut on his humerus. Dream bandages it for him, cheerfully assuring Cross it should be scabbed over and safe to uncover in a day or two...but it isn’t. Bright purple blood keeps trickling from the wound, refusing to clot. He has to change the dressing every couple of hours, and is grateful for the dark sleeves of his uniform that don’t show the stains every time it seeps to the surface.

Each scratch and scuff is insignificant on its own, but the next time Cross examines his bones in a mirror he’s unnerved by the mottled tapestry his body has become. Frequent naps and good food keep his HP topped out so Dream won’t worry, but everything aches in a constant drone of pain that’s getting increasingly difficult to ignore. 

He should say something, but every time he thinks to try it’s like he can see the memory of Chara’s mocking grin in the corner of his vision just daring him to betray another weakness. Dream is kind enough to bring him along, to give Cross a new purpose, a way to be useful, but the little Guardian has managed for a long time on his own. His offer was made out of generosity, not necessity and while Cross likes to think that Dream appreciates his company and his help, there’s others who could easily fill the same role.

But Cross has nowhere else to go.

So he keeps his mouth shut and ignores the first tingles of numbness in his bones. He tries not to call attention to the way his fingers sometimes won’t curl properly around the hilt of his sword. When he trips and stumbles over his own leaden feet he blames simple exhaustion and when Dream scolds him for not listening Cross isn’t exactly lying when he says he was lost in thought. His mind feels clouded with a thick fog, making it hard to remember where he is and why, but he tells himself he’s felt worse and that isn’t a lie either. 

His training as a Royal Guard and everything that came after taught him how to endure, and the longer it lasts, the easier it is to accept that this is just his new reality; each step he takes feeling harder than the last, each breath a little slower and more laborious. He actually thinks he’s hiding it pretty well until their next stop turns out to be a perfect and peaceful pacifist timeline with Monsters and Humans living together peacefully on the surface. At his confused look, Dream’s answering smile is over-bright and full of worry. 

“I thought you could use a break,” Dream tells him. “You haven’t had one in a while, right?”

Cross doesn’t even get a chance to formulate an argument before Dream is leading him along by the arm, pointing excitedly across the crowded square. “Look, they’re having a fair here today! We should get some ice cream! I haven’t had some in forever!”

It’s hard to deny Dream’s whimsical request, especially considering how much of his time is devoted to taking care of others. Cross buries his face down in the cover of his hood, trying not to betray his unease. He’s never liked big crowds in the first place -- too many potential threats hidden in a tapestry of unmemorable faces -- but right now he’s even less so because he knows he’s not at his best. His nerves are grated raw with every too-loud laugh and each careless person stepping too far into his personal space in the bustling street.

Dream glances back at him, a pang of concern flashes across his face before he masks it again. Insistently he drags Cross over to an empty break between the buildings and offers, “How about you wait here while I get it?”

“Thanks,” Cross says, feeling as relieved as he does awkward, wondering exactly what Dream picked up from his feelings in order to make that offer. He’s told Cross he’s much better at interpreting positive emotions than negative ones -- those are his brother’s domain -- but nonetheless he can tell when someone is feeling down. It’s easier for him if the source of the emotion is especially nearby, or especially strong, and Cross can only hope his case was solely the former rather than the latter. 

Cross settles against the building as Dream continues onward, already feeling better for having a solid wall at his back. He’s put a lot of work into mastering the intimidating scowl that encourages people not to look him in the eye and go about their business, and he puts it to good use to discourage anyone from getting too close again. Finally with a moment to himself, he crosses his arms so he can discreetly check the bandage on his humerus. It’s wet again, already leaving a damp stain on his shirt. He grimaces, wondering if there’s time to slap another layer on it, but already he can see Dream trotting back towards him, beaming brightly with an ice cream in each hand. 

“Here!” Dream thrusts a cone in Cross’s direction, looking immensely pleased with himself. “You like chocolate, right?”

Cross is inexplicably touched that Dream remembered. Despite himself, his scowl falls away, a tiny grin hesitantly creeping in to replace it. “Thanks.”

He reaches for the cone, but as his arm extends he feels a paralysing cramp of agony shoot down from his fingers all the way to his shoulder. The pain is so sharp, his whole body flushes with a hot-cold sweat as he fights to keep the reaction off his face, but it’s a pointless effort. Dream flinches, sockets going wide. “C-cross?”

The ice cream slips from Dream’s distracted grip. Cross tries to catch it, it should be effortless for someone with his training, but his fingers refuse to move...no, his whole body won’t move. He feels frozen, like a statue. His skull is ringing so loudly he can’t think over the noise, it hurts, it-

“Cross?”

The words barely reach him. His vision flickers like a faulty television, full of searing static as his surroundings reel away from him and another scene jumps into view. It’s foreign and familiar at the same time: a raised podium around a sea of expectant faces, white-robed figures flanking him on either side like pillars. He can’t make out the details, but he doesn’t need to. He knows these shapes, these people. His former friends stand like statues, immobile guardians forming a loose circle around the royal family, ready to protect them from the crowd. 

Everything is frozen around him like a surreal panorama of his former life. It’s not real but it feels like it could be, like he could reach out and touch it if only his body weren’t paralysed. He strains silently, trying to turn his head, because just on the edge of his vision he can see the sweep of a familiar cape at his side, just where it always used to be. Papyrus’s shadow falls across him like a protective hand, shielding him from the prying eyes of their audience. His brother’s profile is outlined against the sun so that even when Cross strains his eyelights to look he can’t see him clearly. There’s only the blinding halo of light reflecting off the curves of his skull as the sun’s corona glares like an accusing eye, its fierce gaze scorching Cross’s vision. 

Cross can feel his sins crawling up his spine like icy fingers, locking in a chokehold around his throat. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He’s burning and freezing in the same instance, choking on nothing as he tries and fails to shudder from the conflict of unrecognisable emotions boiling up inside him, and-

“CROSS!?”

The world jolts around him and everything changes again like someone switched the channel. He’s back in the marketplace. Dream’s hold on his jacket is a lifeline shaking him back to reality. His eye-lights are a pale and anxious. His mouth is moving, but every word after Cross’s name is lost to him. There’s nothing but the roar of senseless noise in his skull as his legs abruptly give out from under him, and the dirty cobblestone of the street rises up violently to meet him. 

* * *

There’s a long period of senseless, suffocating blackness before Cross comes back to himself. Even before he manages to open his eyes, his body has a backlog of about a hundred complaints all vying for his attention. It’s tempting to just let himself slip back under, but the murky half-memory of Dream’s fearful expression has him jerking awake, squinting against the stark overhead lights.

The room isn’t familiar to him, but there’s a strong odor of sterile surfaces poorly overlaid with a fake, floral smell that makes him think of hospitals. He’s lying prone on a hard mattress, covered up to his collarbones in a stiff white blanket that feels rough and unpleasant against his unexpectedly bare chest. His shirt is missing, and all the ugly bruises and scuffs he’s gained over the last few weeks are on ghastly display. The bright, uncompromising lights make them look worse than he remembered. Mottled patches of brown and purple dapple over his sternum and ribs. The once pristine sweep of his bones are warped and cracked, unpleasant to look at. 

The appalling state of his body is so distracting it takes him an absurdly long moment to realise that Dream is beside him. In his lap, he’s cradling a battered skeletal hand that Cross only belatedly realises is his own. He can’t feel his fingers, or Dream’s touch. 

There’s unexpectedly dark furrows under Dream’s normally bright sockets as he stares at Cross with an uncharacteristically serious expression. Dream is such a positive, optimistic force of nature, it would be easy to think he’s unaffected by negative emotion, but a few months of association has taught Cross what a lie that is. In quiet, private moments, Dream has shown he can feel frustration, sadness and hurt. Cross is a lot better at reading movement rather than expressions, but in the strained twist of Dream’s mouth he thinks he reads both worry and disappointment.

_ Shit _ , he thinks in faint dismay. 

“I knew something was wrong, Cross,” Dream says at length, his voice heavy and soft. Each word skewers through Cross’s soul like a well-targeted arrow. “I could tell you were worried, but I didn’t want to push. I was waiting for you to talk to me.”

Cross doesn’t have any excuse except his own cowardice. He stares down at his ruined ribs, because it’s easier than meeting the look in Dream’s eyes. “Sorry.”

Dream gives him a small, wobbly smile. “It’s okay. I know we haven’t known each other very long. I just thought...” 

He doesn’t try to finish that sentence, which Cross is grateful for, because he doesn’t know how he would explain to Dream what it’s like to have been betrayed so thoroughly by everyone he’s ever known; by his friends, by his father figure, by his brother, by his own goddamn body which sometimes didn’t feel entirely like his own any more. Even without Chara or the X-event grafted onto his mind and soul, he doesn’t feel normal. There’s this constant, intrusive itch of wrongness that he wants to blame on the purple blood in his marrow, but he knows it’s deeper than that. Traveling with Dream is everything he’s wanted; a cause to champion, a penance for his crimes, a friend he can trust above all others, but--

He stares down at his crooked fingers. Even before he started accumulating injuries that wouldn’t heal, he’d known something was wrong. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it. 

Dream squeezes his hand. It’s probably meant to be reassuring, but Cross still can’t feel anything below his elbow. “Do you know what’s happening to you?”

Cross hesitates before shaking his head. His only inkling is that after everything he’s been through, his time with Dream is more than he deserves and so naturally the universe would be out to screw him over for it, but he’s pretty sure karma doesn’t actually work that way. 

“I didn’t either, but I spoke to Ink while you were asleep,” Dream tells him pensively, making Cross wonder exactly how long he’s been unconscious. Ink isn’t the most reliable skeleton to get a hold of at the best of times. 

“I didn’t think you two were talking,” Cross says softly, unsure of how he feels. His feelings about Ink are complicated, but then that describes most of his relationships. 

Dream’s expression is similarly conflicted. “We’re still working towards the same goals. Ink just has...a more unusual outlook on things than I realised. But he’s not a bad person.”

He seems hasty to reassure Cross, which is kind of hilarious; if anyone’s the bad person here, it’s Cross, not Ink.

“Anyway,” Dream continues hastily. “He told me something I hadn’t heard before. I think it might be related to your situation.”

It’s not a piece of information he seems eager to part with. There’s a long moment of awkward silence as he gathers his thoughts. Finally he begins, “People who end up jumping between worlds always create new and interesting stories, so Ink runs into them more often than I do. He told me that most people who travel the multiverse come from empty or static worlds. Places that can’t change or grow anymore. Places that don’t need them anymore.”

Cross gives a short nod to show that he’s listening. His universe had been one of those, after all, and he can understand the desperation of anyone stuck in a doomed timeline to escape by any means necessary. He can still remember his world as an empty, soul-crushing void. A white, unchanging landscape, full of dead hopes and unfulfilled dreams.

He hasn’t given much thought to his universe since its restoration. It’s not home to him, not anymore, full of strangers with familiar faces and souls who have barely had a chance to live as anything other than a backdrop for their creator’s selfish desires. Everything there is tainted in his memory, by guilt and anger and hopelessness and the sick insanity that came to him afterwards when everything was lost. 

He hasn’t dared to think about it, but Dream’s gaze is full of painful sympathy and earnest compassion. “But Cross, your world is back...and it needs you there.”

The entreaty fills Cross with unexpected resentment. After all the horror and misery his universe had inflicted on him, how dare anyone suggest he’d deserved to be part of that. How could  _ Dream _ of all people tell him that he should go back and endure more of the same. Besides, everyone had made it quite clear what they thought about Cross. There were definitely hard feelings about their chosen sides and all the spilled dust that couldn’t be taken bad. If Cross was honest, their immediate rejection was kind of welcome. It made it easy to leave and not look back, to not have to sort out the complicated snarl of his own feelings about the people he’d once counted as friends.

(Or family. There was no taking back the rush of XP his brother’s death had given him.)

A bitter lump wells up in the back of his throat and he barely manages to bite out a curt retort. “It doesn’t.”

“I know you don’t want to think so,” Dream tells him gently, “but Ink said that you need your world too.”

That’s even more laughable. It’s true he’d once been willing to rip the rest of the multiverse apart to put his own world back together, now it was restored he had no more obligation towards it. He hadn’t even really seen what it looked like now. Some patchy culmination of their best timelines, probably. Something peaceful and quiet and boring, where monsters had the sun and humans acted like good neighbours and the Royal Guard was probably disbanded because there were no more threats to fight. 

He didn’t want it. He didn’t miss it. He didn’t think about it. 

Dream shifts in discomfort, and Cross hastily squashes down the ugly feelings. Only Nightmare can really weaponise a negative emotion against his brother, but Dream’s told him that too much negativity feels unpleasant, like being swept by an icy breeze. It gives Cross a good motivation not to get too caught up in his tendency for brooding.

Gathering himself, Dream continues, “You’ve seen how the timelines work. It doesn’t matter if you think of them as stories or as code or just as communities. All the pieces are needed to make them work properly, and if there’s something important missing they start to…”

“Fall apart?” Cross guesses dryly when Dream struggles to find the words to finish his sentence.

“Not exactly,” Dream says sadly. “You’ve seen the universes where Gaster disappears from the underground. It’s something that’s not meant to happen, and it damages the timeline like a wound.

“But wounds can be healed, and eventually the hole left by his absence closes up. Everyone forgets, and whatever’s left of him breaks down and disappears until there’s nothing left.”

“And that’s what’s happening to me?” Cross asks. Somehow, his voice sounds even, calm, not at all like someone in the process of disintegrating. Maybe he’s been through one too many traumatising upheavals in his life for the news of his impending demise to have the same impact. Or maybe he’s already in shock and it’s just not penetrating. 

“Ink thinks so,” Dream says. He’s squeezing Cross’s hands so tight, there’s a strained buzz of golden magic between his phalanges. “But if he’s right, that means that there’s a good chance you’ll get better as long as you go back!”

Cross absorbs that declaration with what feels like painful slowness. Maybe he is in shock after all, because all he feels is a faintly morbid curiosity when he asks, “And what happens if I don’t go back?”

Dream’s mouth moves wordlessly for a moment before he snaps, “W-what does it matter!? Of course you’ll go back. As soon as you’re ready to go, I can just-”

“No thanks,” Cross says simply.

It’s actually kind of funny, watching the flustered look of outrage gather like storm clouds on Dream’s face. He takes a deep breath, trying to retain some semblance of rationality and calm. “Cross, if you don’t go home your body is just going to get worse. Even if you don’t get hurt again, things might start breaking down on their own. Besides, you don’t want the people in your world to start forgetting you, do you?”

Some small, nihilistic part of Cross actually thinks that would be a great idea. All the mistakes he made and all the pain he caused disappearing like it never existed--

Cross shakes his head firmly. Okay, no, that’s a little too morbid, even for him, but nevertheless, the idea of returning home isn’t one he wants to consider. With no small amount of desperation, he asks, “Isn’t there anything else we can do?”

Dream’s gaze is uncomfortably full of pity. “I guess I could ask around a little more. There might be more to understand about what’s happening to you. But Cross, if we can’t find anything, you have to let me take you back, okay?”

It’s a meager compromise, but probably the best Cross is going to get. Just because Dream was nice didn’t make him any kind of pushover. He sighs with deep reluctance. “Okay.”

“You promise?” Dream insists, wielding the pleading intensity of his sockets to devastating effect. It would take a stronger monster than Cross to deny him. 

“Ugh,” he complains unhappily. “Fine. I promise.”

He consoles himself that a lot can change in a week. There’s plenty of other multiverse travelers, some more knowledgeable and infinitely less forgetful than Ink. There’s got to be some other way, any other way, to fix him that doesn’t involve going back to his original universe.


	2. Chapter 2

Dream’s multiverse doorways have always been a much smoother and more pleasant experience than Nightmare’s jarring, slime-tainted portals. Even so, when Cross steps across the threshold he can feel the friction of pushing between universes like it’s sandpaper across his bones. It’s agonising, and for a long moment all he can do is lean numbly into Dream’s support and try valiantly to keep down that morning’s meagre breakfast. Considering how little he’s been able to eat for the past week, it’s magic he can’t afford to lose. 

“It’s okay, Cross, you made it. We’re here.” Dream’s voice sounds muffled and distant, his reassurances only becoming slightly more audible as Cross manages to drag in a ragged breath. His hearing has been getting dimmer by slow increments, as has his sight. The prospect of going both deaf and blind had been the final break in his crumbling resolve. He still dreams about the unbearable nothingness of his broken world. He isn’t sure his sanity could handle it a second time. 

At least Dream is kind enough to keep his ‘I told you so’s’ to himself. He’s managing to balance Cross’s weight with surprising ease considering he’s both shorter and slighter in build. With remarkable patience for someone who’s been dealing with Cross’s increasingly desperate stupidity for a week he asks, “How do you feel?”

“Awful,” Cross admits, waiting for the worst of the nausea to pass. After a moment of consideration he hesitantly adds, “Doesn’t feel like anything’s different.”

“Probably because you made us wait so long,” Dream tells him, managing to sound both scolding and worried. Dream’s hand rubs calming circles on Cross’s back, and even that careful touch makes his bones ache with tenderness. “If you hadn’t been so stubborn-!”

“I know,” Cross injects with a sigh. He’s been listening to variations of this rant all week, and even though he deserves another lecture, he’d feel bad if he utterly collapsed on Dream partway through. His knees feel like they belong to a skeleton three times his age. He really wants to sit down.

Dream takes pity on him. He’s a much better companion than Cross deserves. “Can you still walk?”

Cross grunts an affirmative that he hopes he can back up. He really doesn’t want the added embarrassment of Dream carrying him around like he’s an invalid.

“Okay,” Dream says dubiously, but lets Cross have his way. “I can see the castle in the distance-”

“Not there,” Cross blurts, his soul twisting in immediate rejection. The very last place he wants to seek shelter is in the home of everyone who has reason to hate him for his betrayal.

“Then where?”

Cross squints at their surroundings, trying to get his bearings. Technically, he’s never been here before. The world was made anew when the rewrite button was used for the final time, but knowing who instigated that final revision, Cross expects to see fragments of the timelines he’d once known. The details of the town were usually quite similar, and this version seems to follow the expected pattern. The cobblestone streets and quaint buildings are unsettlingly familiar. He tries to remember the layout of streets Undyne forced him to memorise so he’d always know whether he was heading into a likely ambush or a dead end.

“Left,” he says finally. “There’s an old safehouse the guard sometimes used...it should still be there.”

In other timelines, it was just an empty building, so either way it would work as a place to hide until his body decided to stop falling apart on him. He’d been unthinkingly hoping the improvement would be obvious instantly, but Dream had warned him that he might need to spend considerable time back in his home universe before he could safely leave again.

(He hasn’t explicitly said so, but everything they’ve learned about Cross’s condition suggests that it would be best if he remains in his own timeline on a more permanent basis, perhaps only leaving intermittently like Blue does whenever he’s called on to assist Ink and Dream in their guardianship of the multiverse. It’s not a prospect Cross is even willing to consider yet, and thankfully Dream hasn’t tried to press him.)

Guided by Cross’s muddy memory of the past, they make their way through the streets that slowly turn more desolate and dingy as they move further away from the castle. The neat rows of welcoming houses turn to run-down storefronts, and then empty, boarded-up buildings. After the guard had rooted out the most problematic dens of criminal activity, the district had been mostly left abandoned. The few people they pass gawk openly, and Cross has to resist the urge to stare them down until they flee from his judgemental stare.

It’s not like he can blame them. Without ever meaning to, Dream tends to stand out. His aura has a way of subliminally drawing people in, sparking curiosity and awe wherever they go. Usually this means Cross’s more subdued presence gets overlooked, but in this case he might be garnering just as much attention. His uniform is distinct and easily recognisable, assuming things haven’t changed much since the last timeline. It’s an unfortunate risk, but despite everything he’s never been able to bring himself to discard the symbol of everything he once worked so hard for.

By the time they reach what Cross desperately hopes is the right street, he’s breathing hard as if they’ve crossed thrice the distance at a full sprint. His lack of endurance feels shameful, but Dream never once falters as Cross points out the building he’s been looking for. He thinks it was a bakery once upon a time, but the colorful storefront has grown dull. There’s paint peeling from the walls, and the barred windows are so dirty they’re almost opaque. Dream looks dubiously at the heavy doors. There’s a thick chain wrapped around the handles, and a sign that firmly declares the building ‘CONDEMNED’ hanging crookedly above the entrance. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, Cross draws on the spluttering dregs of his magic and summons a knife to sheer through the chain, ignoring Dream’s cry of protest. If he’d spend more time planning for his return instead of desperately hoping to avoid it, he might have been able to come up with a better solution than this, but right now all he cares about is getting out of sight. He feels inexplicably paranoid, even though the sight of two strange skeletons really shouldn’t be enough to cause much of a ripple of interest.

“You shouldn’t be wasting your strength,” Dream tells him even as he dutifully helps Cross inside. It’s excellent advice delivered just slightly too late. The world is starting to revolve around him like the world’s most uncomfortable merry-go-round. He winches his sockets shut against the vertigo, trying to calm his ragged breathing.

“There should be a room at the back,” he tells Dream, forced to trust in the smaller skeleton’s support. He can barely lift his legs for each step, his shoes dragging across the scuffed floorboards. “Staff only.”

The inside of the building looks like it’s been gutted, either by its former owners or by looters. There’s no furniture save a few broken boards. Even the light fixtures have been torn out, forcing Dream to summon up a ball of magic to illuminate the dreary interior. With so little left intact, it’s easy to find the right door -- it’s the only one left intact. Tentatively, Dream wiggles the handle, and they both wince at the awful screech of its rusted mechanism attempting to turn.

“It’s locked,” Dream points out, giving Cross a warning look. “Don’t try and break it down this time. At least let me do it.”

“Won’t need to,” Cross grunts, reaching out with a shaky hand to press it against the door. His throbbing skull makes it difficult to concentrate, but with difficulty he finds the obscured thread of magic in the door and yanks on it with his own, like pulling on a silent doorbell. There’s a long moment of silence -- is his magic too weak, or did someone from the guard come back and change the locks? -- but after an anxious pause the door grudgingly creaks open for them.

“Oh!” Dream says, intrigued. “Clever.”

Cross shrugs. It’s a simple warding mechanism, attuned to a wavelength of magic every guard is taught to memorise. He shoves the door open, revealing a musty room that’s only barely in better condition than the rest of the building. There’s a simple wooden table and a pair of crooked chairs along with a few mouldering boxes in the corner. Tucked away in the corner is a low sleeping cot, threadbare and rickety and the most beautiful thing Cross has ever seen.

“Alright,” Dream says as Cross makes a small, yearning sound. “Let me put you down.”

With Dream’s help Cross manages to limp towards the bed, and without a shred of hesitation he just sprawls out face first on the grimy sheets.

“You’re gonna get your uniform dirty,” Dream scolds with a soft giggle, but he sounds almost as relieved as Cross feels to have finally made it. “You stay here for a minute while I look around.”

Cross makes a noise of affirmation, or at least he thinks he does. Already he can feel himself slipping into an exhausted doze, letting the demands of his body drag him under. Until now, there’s been a subtle pressure in his soul that’s been winding tighter, a tension that’s slowly built from pressure to pain, but for the first time he can feel the first hint of easing. It reminds him of having a dislocated bone popped back into place, something wrong being put right again.

He’s home.

For all that he can’t have been napping for very long, it feels like the most restful sleep he’s had in weeks. He actually manages to convince his sockets to open on the first try, and his first sensation isn’t a delayed stay of repressed pain, but more of a gentle ache like he would often get after a hard training session. He’s still sore, but it’s a tolerable, even gratifying kind of feeling. 

Damn, he thinks faintly. He really should have listened to Dream sooner. 

He glances around for his companion, and for a moment is struck dumb with confusion, wondering why Dream moved them to a new location while he was sleeping. A moment later he realises he’s wrong; it’s the same room, but so much cleaner than before. Years of oily dust have been diligently scrubbed from the furniture, from the floor and even from the walls. The mildewing boxes have been cleared out, and in their place is a neat stack of what must have been their former contents. It’s mostly cans, probably containing emergency rations, along with a few tools and cooking implements. All of them have been freshly cleaned and look almost as good as new.

Even the sheets on the bed have been changed. Cross glances down to find not only clean linens, but fresh bandages up his arms where Dream must have redressed his wounds. Once he’d found out how many Cross had been hiding from him, he’d insisted on helping each time they needed to be replaced.

The room is so clean that it’s almost funny how Dream is very drastically the opposite. His yellow robes have gone brown with ingrained dirt, and there’s dark smears across every exposed plane of bone. He’s clearly exhausted himself in the effort. He’s slumped in one of the chairs that he must have dragged to Cross’s bedside, balanced in a precariously upright position against its flimsy back as he dozes whole-heartedly with a soft, open-mouthed snore. Snorting quietly in amusement, Cross reaches up to brush a particularly sooty smear from Dream’s cheek only to have the light pressure of his touch rouse the other skeleton from his slumber.

“Oh!” Dream says, scrubbing at his sockets and leaving yet another messy smudge behind, “you’re awake!”

“Idiot,” Cross accuses, but there’s no bite in the insult. “You’re not meant to push yourself so hard.”

_ Not for me _ , he doesn’t say, but the contrary tilt to Dream’s mouth suggests he can hear the unspoken addition.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” he retorts, sticking out his tongue. “Especially when you don’t listen to me in the first place. Some loyal guard you are.”

He knows Dream only means it playfully, but Cross tries not to show his wince. If anything, Dream’s being far too kind about it. Cross’s stubbornness has been nothing but a steep inconvenience that, in the end, proved to be nothing but a pointless waste of time. 

Dream’s eyelights go soft. “Don’t. I know it’s hard for you to be back here.”

Cross gives a noncommittal shrug. If not for his personal feelings, it wouldn’t really be so bad. He’s seen enough worlds to know that his is one of the rare lucky ones. Monsters and humans live in peace under an open sky in a single, unalterable timeline. It may have been a rough journey to get there, but so many other universes won’t ever reach their own happy endings, doomed to miserable eternities of dust and darkness.

“It’s fine,” he says, eyelights skirting away from Dream’s unconvinced stare as he looks for a way to divert the conversation. His gaze falls on the neat stack of supplies in the corner. “Did you find food?”

“I did,” Dream beams, looking pleased with himself. For a moment, Cross is impressed that his unsubtle diversion actually worked until he catches the sly narrowing of Dream’s sockets. “There’s some soup. You must be hungry, right?”

Food has been a point of contention all week. Cross’s lack of appetite hasn’t stopped Dream from trying to persuade him to eat every couple of hours, insisting that Cross takes a few small mouthfuls no matter how unappealing the prospect seems. He still can’t work up much enthusiasm about the idea of food, but since it’s slightly better than being made to talk about his feelings he gives a reluctant nod.

“Great! I’ll heat it up!” 

Dream practically bounds out of his chair, re-energised from his nap in a way Cross is grudgingly jealous of. The safehouse’s meagre supplies have provided them with a tiny, magic powered stove that Dream coaxes into giving a bright, warm circle of flame. It’s hot enough to make the whole room feel warmer, almost cosy, as Dream empties one of the cans into a saucepan and sets it to simmer.

Cross watches, hating the feeling of uselessness, but the moment he shifts like he’s thinking of getting up Dream pins him with a harrowing stare that makes Cross change his mind. He settles back, trying not to fidget uneasily in place. It’s a strange reversal of their usual roles. For as long as they’ve travelled together, Cross has always insisted on being the one to set up their camps, whether that meant building a shelter, bargaining for meals, or setting up wards on whatever room they may have been generously offered by a helpful local of whatever universe they happen to be in. Physical work has always been gratifying, and it makes him feel better to know that he’s paying Dream back in some small way for all his kindness. Being on the receiving end of such treatment makes him feel uncomfortable.

It makes him feel useless, like a burden.

“It’s done!” Dream announces cheerfully, breaking into the dire spiral of Cross’s thoughts. He presents Cross with a ceramic bowl of what looks to be tomato soup. The smell of it makes Cross’s soul pinch uneasily. Tomato used to be one of his favourite flavours until he learned what a prominent trait that was in other Sanses. Now his pride insists he should dislike it on principle no matter what his hungry magic has to say about it. 

“Come on,” Dream wheedles. “I’ll feed you myself if I have to!”

That’s enough to motivate Cross to pick up the spoon, heaving a disgruntled sigh as he takes a tentative sip. The soup is thin and too salty, and even though Dream cooked it he’s never had much talent for infusing monster food with the burst of invigorating intensity that makes them palatable no matter what the taste. To be fair, Cross has never had much talent for that trick either. When it came to cooking and healing, he always relied on Pa-

He shoves another spoonful of soup into his mouth before he can finish the thought, letting the watery broth punish him for nearly thinking of his brother. He manages a few more unenthused bites before glancing at Dream, hoping his meagre effort will be enough to satisfy his self-appointed caretaker. 

Unexpectedly, Dream isn’t paying attention. His gaze is distant, concentration turned inwards as his eyelights ripple through various shades of yellow, from a cool and pale cream to a rich, dark topaz. Cross watches him carefully, not only because it’s fascinating but because Dream is more vulnerable while tuning his attention to the emanations of other worlds. Their emotions cry out to him, sometimes in joy and delight, but all too often in terror and despair. The slight grimace on Dream’s face tells Cross exactly which it is this time.

“Something’s wrong?” he asks, concerned.

Dream blinks rapidly, drawing back to the present, and gives Cross a look of pained apology. “It’s my brother. I can feel him in a world not far from here.”

Cross doesn’t flinch at the mention of Nightmare’s name anymore, but that doesn’t mean Dream can’t read his unspoken emotional response. Before Cross can even open his mouth, Dream interrupts him.

“Don’t even think of offering to come. You’re not in any sort of shape for a fight, especially not with him.”

Cross can’t exactly deny that. Having earned Nightmare’s personal enmity with his broken promise of loyalty, Cross does his best to stay as far away from the dark skeleton as possible. Their last confrontation had gone poorly, and not at all in Cross’s favour. If not for Dream, Cross may have found exactly how many times his body could be broken before the lingering determination in his soul finally failed to regenerate him.

His body gives an unwilling shudder at the memory. Hesitantly, he asks, “He’s not heading here, is he?”

“I don’t think so,” Dream assures him. “This is a positive timeline. He wouldn’t have much power here...but he’s still looking for you, Cross, so you need to make sure you don’t catch his attention.”

Cross gives a terse nod. From what Dream described of his brother’s methods, Nightmare was likely watching him for a long time before ever approaching him, feeding on the despair and madness that had taken him after he’d taken Chara’s soul. That powerful negativity had given Nightmare a strong hold on him, allowing him to manipulate Cross’s emotions to ensure he stayed angry and lost, unable to break free from the endless cycle of causing and receiving pain.

Until Dream had taken him in. His positive aura was a shield, allowing Cross to hide from Nightmare’s furious searching, and his closeness allowed Cross the chance to claw back some measure of balance. The violent undercurrent of his negative emotions was still there, but more settled, controllable. These days he could actually feel things other than fury and resentment. He could smile again, though Dream said it was more of a smirk. Some day he might even be able to laugh. 

It wasn’t enough to simply rely on Dream staying with him forever, either. Dream had made sure Cross knew how to keep himself in check, how to suppress those bursts of negativity so Nightmare wouldn’t be able to find him. It was a lot of calming breathing exercises, mostly. Taking time for dedicated and compassionate self-care. Lots of chocolate and tacos. Cross often felt a bit silly for what felt like so many unnecessary indulgences, but it did seem to be working.

If Nightmare was making a move, that meant a world was in danger. “You need to go.”

It’s obviously the necessary course of action. He doesn’t expect Dream to look so conflicted. “But...you…?”

“I’m fine,” Cross says curtly, gesturing down at himself. “I’m already feeling better, and like you said, this is a peaceful timeline.”

He doubts he even needed to worry about the rare pockets of civil unrest that once existed, considering those had all been Frisk’s doing in bizarre fits of self-sabotage. Cross is about as safe as he can be, under the circumstances.

“...All right,” Dream concedes reluctantly. He points an accusing finger at Cross, “But you better be here when I get back! And that soup better be finished!”

“Fine,” Cross says, because it’s only a small concession to make for Dream’s peace of mind. With uncertain gentleness, he adds, “Be careful.

The portal he opens wavers with his reluctance. He glances back Cross like he’s having second thoughts before offering a radiant smile.

“Always!” he promises before leaping through the tear. It closes up behind him with an unearthly sound that Cross can feel deep in his bones. It’s slow to fade, but as it does Cross becomes keenly aware of the suddenness of Dream’s absence, and the stark silence left behind.

No, not silence, he corrects himself sternly. He knows what real silence is. The building is empty, but he can hear the faint creak of the floors settling around him, the distant rattle of the windows shaking in the wind, and a faint skittering of something moving in the walls. It’s not empty, just...quiet. Uncomfortably so. It’s discomforting to realise how much it bothers to be entirely alone. Even before Dream, he had Chara’s constant, aggravating presence to keep him company, and before that-

The past keeps rising up like a tide, threatening to swallow him. He groans and buries his face back down in the pillow, trying to suffocate the thoughts out of his skull. Finishing the soup will have to wait for later, even though it’ll probably be infinitely more unpleasant once it’s cold. Right now he just doesn’t want to think for a couple of hours, hopefully long enough for Dream to come back and save him from the silence.

* * *

Cross tries to sleep, but it feels like his body is on edge, every sense cranked up to eleven. The room grows colder as the heat of the stove dissipates, leaving behind an uncomfortable, clammy chill. His injuries itch under the bandages, and no amount of scratching or shifting seems to alleviate it. The muffled chittering in the walls feels like tiny teeth gnawing inside his skull. Everything feels intrusive and aggravating, and it takes him more than an hour to finally realise the problem.

Dream warned him that his aura was, for lack of a better word, addictive. The constant buffer of his positivity was a warm blanket of protection against the harsh reality of the Multiverse. Cross hadn’t realised what a difference it made until now.

Shit. He can feel his soul racing with anxiety, beating in frantic tempo against the underside of his sternum. The state of his body feels unbearable, damp with sweat and sticky with blood and throbbing with a low current of pain. Valiantly, he thinks of Dream’s lessons, forcing himself to take slow deep breaths until the sheer intensity of sensory input feels more tolerable and his soul reluctantly allows itself to be calmed.

Inhale: lie back and let his limbs go slack, unspooling the tension from his bones.

Exhale: let the air hiss quietly through his teeth, like he can blow away the noise of the pests scuttling through the decaying building.

Inhale: think of something calming. Still water. A starry sky. A heavy blanket draped on top of him. 

Exhale: ignore the furtive tickle of sensation over his bones, like tiny feet scuttling over him-

Wait.

He opens his sockets, staring up at the ceiling. There’s a pale nest of spiderwebs overhead, perfectly mundane and expected from such a dilapidated building.

It’s wrong. Something’s wrong.

He remembers thinking how clean the room looked when he first work up. Dream had really gone all out, diligently removing all signs of neglect to make the place comfortable for Cross. He’d been very thorough.

The spiderweb is new.

A faint pressure dances across the back of his hand. Cross looks down at himself, and flinches in alarm. The light pressure across his arms and chest isn’t just his imagination, it’s a loose weave of fine threads being slowly and carefully laid out by half a dozen small spiders. Their beady eyes swivel towards him as he stares in a fraught stand-off. One of them breaks formation and starts guiltily backing away, and Cross bursts into action.

“Get off!” he snarls, trying to swipe at them, but as delicate as the threads look, they’re strong. His arm is pulled up short, jarring his bandaged wrist. The spiders wisely take the opportunity to abscond, their hairy legs skittering noisily against the floor in the same aggravating pattern Cross had been trying to ignore earlier.

With a wordless growl he summons a knife into his hand and begins hacking at the net of webbing. It’s pointless to go after the spiders themselves, they’re not the real threat. They’re just an obstacle to catch him off-guard and slow him down to give their Mistress the advantage.

And right on cue, Cross hears a thundering crash from the front of the building, along with a painfully familiar shout that rattles the walls with its volume. 

“HEY LOSER, WE KNOW YOU’RE HERE!”

“Fuck,” he breathes, staggering to his feet, still flailing desperately to sever the last sticking threads. The bowl of soup is sent tumbling to the floor in a gory splatter of red that goes completely ignored as Cross finally tears himself free and runs for the door. There’s no time to even think of gathering up any of the supplies Dream found. His body is acting on pure adrenaline to the threat in Undyne’s voice.

The corridor outside the saferoom is empty. He has maybe three seconds before Undyne ploughs through the wall, but if he remembers correctly there should be a back door he can use. He makes a break for it, ignoring the shrill scream of Undyne’s frustration and the catastrophic destruction of timber and plaster. He can just make out the shape of the door ahead of him, but before he can even reach for the handle it opens on his own.

He should have guessed that Undyne would send someone to block his escape, but he’s entirely unprepared for that someone to be Papyrus.

For a long, frozen moment the two brothers simply gape at each other. Unthinkingly, Cross CHECKS him the way he would any other potential opponent, his body still reacting on instinct.

*** PAPYRUS 30 ATK 30 DEF**

*** Isn’t ready to face his** ~~**brother** ~~ **MURDERER again.**

Cross chokes on his own breath like he’s been sucker-punched. His sins feel heavy and ugly, crawling up his back like one of Nightmare’s tentacles.

Papyrus stares down at him, his stance stupidly open, like he’s forgotten Cross is supposed to be an enemy. His jaw twitches hesitantly, moving to shape the familiar name that Cross has long since discarded.

“Sa-”

_ Nope _ , Cross thinks, shock and exhaustion sloughing off him in a burst of adrenalised determination. 

A step through the void lets him bypass Papyrus entirely, leaping out of the shortcut halfway down the street and hitting the ground running. He can hear a distant crash and Undyne’s shout of outrage, but she’s too late. The road ahead of him is clear of obstacles. Cross pushes his damaged body to give him every ounce of speed it’s capable of and sprints away, not daring to look back.


End file.
